


And Now Through This Pain I Remember Your Kindness

by yujacheong



Category: Knightfall (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chronic Pain, Explicit Sexual Content, Gawain/OMC is the endgame, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujacheong/pseuds/yujacheong
Summary: Gawain works through his issues with the help of sex, alcohol, violence, and a brother Templar's illegitimate son (roughly in that sequential order).“That amount of drinking is exceedingly ill-advised.”“I don’t need anyone telling me what to do,” said Gawain rudely, squinting into the daylight, trying to ascertain the identity of the speaker.“You don’t say.”
Relationships: Gawain/Landry du Lauzon, Gawain/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	And Now Through This Pain I Remember Your Kindness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



Templar Knights were known to break their vows of celibacy. This was just a sad fact of frail, mortal life, and if the truth be told, most of the time their transgressions were of little adverse consequence to the Order.

Gawain understood all this very well. The women and the children – the illegitimate fruit of those forbidden unions – were to be provided for in perpetuity, a collective atonement for an individual sin, and in the years since his ignominious return to France from the Holy Land, it had been among Gawain’s occasional responsibilities to quietly deliver these regular payments to the requisite households in and around Paris.

He didn’t understand why he had been called to this particular duty. Sometimes he wondered if it was because his brothers felt sorry for him – let the poor, gimpy sod see what he’s been missing! Is the fairer sex not most fair indeed? Or perhaps it was just part of the Almighty’s plan for him. He would never know for certain.

“Thank you kindly, good sir,” said the woman at the door as Gawain pressed the small purse of coins into her hands.

Gawain grunted his acknowledgement of her appreciation. Who among his brother Templars would have been tempted by one such as she? Would Landry have liked that curly hair? Would Tancrede have fallen for those big, brown eyes? “There are bags of flour and beans this month,” he added, gesturing vaguely towards the wagon behind him. “You may have one of each if you wish.”

“God bless you. You are most generous, milord,” she replied humbly.

Ah, such a simple woman that she did not even know how to properly address a man of Gawain’s rank and status! He chose not to take offense, however, and assisted in carrying her packages indoors. He took his leave shortly thereafter, and though he sensed that the woman might have welcomed his presence for longer, he did not tarry. After all, he still had several additional deliveries to make before nightfall.

From an intellectual standpoint, of course, Gawain understood the appeal of women. He admired their grace when speaking; he admired the softness of their curves and symmetry of their faces. But they did not excite him or sustain his interest. He’d always preferred the company of his fellow brothers…or rather he’d used to. _Before_. Nowadays, he wasn’t sure if he didn’t prefer the solace of solitude, if he didn’t prefer to seek, first and foremost, the company of his own lonely self.

His final delivery at the end of a long and boring day was to an address in Le Marais, situated practically in the shadow of the Paris Temple. This meant that, by implication, the home and its inhabitants were under the direct protection of the Order. So naturally Gawain was expecting a newly fallen young woman, beautiful and great with child, to answer his knock at the door.

He was, needless to say, disconcerted when it was a boy who opened to door instead. No, not a boy, half-hidden in the shadow, but a man. He was considerably younger than Gawain, yes, but he was definitely not a boy. Ah, no, surely one of his brothers was not…?! Before Gawain could indulge fully in scandalous speculations, the young man, who was favoring the red cross on Gawain’s surcoat with a hard look, began to speak.

“You knights need not call anymore,” said the young man curtly, dispensing with the usual polite preamble. “My mother has gone to God.”

Gawain stared at the young man, brows knitted. When he’d said ‘mother,’ he hadn’t used the French word. It’d sounded more like ‘umm’ – which was ‘mother’ in the tongue of the Saracens, which meant – hm. Had one of Gawain’s brother Templars brought a heathen mistress with him from the Holy Land? Was this young man their son?! He studied the young man’s features – handsome and fine. Did he possibly see Godfrey in the slope of the nose or perhaps de Molay in the angle of the forehead? Ah no, it was hopeless; the young man himself might not know. Indeed, it would be safer for him not to know.

“Then the purse and the provisions are for you,” said Gawain. “You are welcome to both just as she was.”

The young man did not say no. Who would persist in such reluctance, after all? But he did take note of Gawain’s limp and bade him stand aside and let him carry the bags inside.

Gawain had no objections to that. He did have objections to personal questions, though, and the young man was, it seemed, of an inquisitive nature.

“How did it happen?” he asked. He didn’t have to specify; Gawain understood to what he was referring.

“In battle. I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Oh. I see.” The young man paused. “Does it continue to trouble you?”

Gawain shrugged. “Sometimes. The pain is at its worst at night.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

An awkward silence lengthened between them. “That will be all,” said Gawain at last. “You may expect me again in a month’s time.”

“Oh, um, wait – you don’t – ”

Gawain paused, grimacing at the throbbing in his leg. Night had fallen, and the pain was starting to intensify.

The young man shook his head slightly. The poor light and his olive complexion made it difficult to tell, but Gawain thought he might be blushing. “I mean, you don’t have to wait until next month. You can visit me whenever you like, Sir Knight.”

“My name is Gawain. And you are?”

“Nicolas, Sir Gawain.”

Not a Saracen name. Perhaps he had been baptized, to have a Christian name like that. Gawain gave the young man – Nicolas – a slight bow. “Nicolas, then. You may expect me again in a month’s time.”

*

Gawain wasn’t about to take advantage of some brother Templar’s illegitimate son. He didn’t have to, anyway; he had Landry du Lauzon for those base needs.

“Your prick grows shorter by the year, Landry, I swear,” he growled. “If you can’t go deeper, Heaven help me, I’ll – ”

“It’s your temper that’s grown shorter, my friend, not my prick,” said Landry between huffing breaths. He might have been working Gawain’s arsehole hard enough to please himself plenty, but Gawain couldn’t feel anything besides the constant pain of his leg. Actual pleasure seemed impossibly remote.

“If you think insulting me is going to make your prick feel the least bit larger than it actually is…”

“Sorry,” muttered Landry as he redoubled his efforts.

It was an old arrangement. Gawain had saved Landry’s life during the Siege of Acre, and for his sins he had been crippled and condemned to a lifetime of endless pain. Landry, in return for his life and rude health, had been on call ever since to do whatever it was Gawain needed to ease that pain. That used to mean giving massages to Gawain’s leg. Lately, though, it’d mostly meant fucking Gawain through the bed pallet.

“Ahhh, _there_.” Finally. Landry had achieved the correct angle and depth to his thrusts. Given the amount of practice he got, one would think he’d have been an expert by now…but no, that would be too easy, and since when did Landry ever make anything to do with anything _easy_?

Tonight, however, the eventual reward was worth the annoyance. Gawain sighed happily as the sweet shock of each push began to overwhelm the constant, miserable ache in his leg. Good. He felt good. At last. He tugged Landry down, so that the weight of Landry’s chest was resting on his back as Landry continued to pound him. Yes, perfect. His own prick was beginning to rise to attention –

Landry groaned and froze at the apex of a thrust. He shuddered once and came.

“Landry, you bastard,” hissed Gawain. Why had he been cursed to save the life of someone with so little apparent self-control?

“Sorry, I’ll try to keep going…”

But that just wasn’t going to happen. Landry’s erection was fled in moments, and with it went any hope of a good night’s sleep for Gawain. Landry pressed apologetic kisses to the back of Gawain’s neck, but Gawain was having none of it. “Oh, get off me.” He pushed Landry off of him and out of the narrow bed entirely.

“Would you like me to…?” Undeterred, Landry clambered to his feet and gave Gawain’s erect prick a significant look.

He didn’t. He really didn’t. “No. Go away.”

Landry bleated one last, half-hearted ‘sorry’ before leaving Gawain to his private miseries.

Gawain turned onto his back and laid flat, staring sightlessly up to the ceiling. He could feel a trickle of wetness seeping out of his arse, but it seemed like too much of a bother to try to clean it up. And anyway, there were many hours before dawn yet. He tried conjuring a few choice images to get back into the mood – tussling with a hard, strong body, rolling over and over and over, struggling until one or the other was overpowered and yielded, such lovely submission – being split in two by a big, hard prick, being pummeled, teeth clenched, and hurting so, so good – ploughing handsome Nicolas, whom he’d only just met the day prior, making him writhe and wail and spurt stripes of white seed onto smooth olive skin… He gave his prick a few strokes…

But no. It was no good. The pain had become too strong; achieving release now would be no better than a sneeze.

Gawain gave up, turned onto his side, and tried to find a comfortable position for his leg. Would a rolled up blanket help? A pillow? As usual, though, his attempts were all futile, and he tossed restlessly until morning.

*

Alcohol wasn’t strictly forbidden; it wasn’t like keeping the company of women. Nevertheless, many Templars refused on principle to drink anything stronger than Communion wine, and their temperance in this regard was widely known.

“We don’t usually see your kind here,” said the innkeeper.

Gawain grimaced. He wasn’t wearing his Templar uniform with its signature red cross, but apparently it didn’t matter. His general bearing and full beard gave him away. Still. He wasn’t about to explain or excuse himself to a mere innkeeper. “Are you going to fill my cup, or are you just going to talk all night? Should I be looking elsewhere to quench my thirst?” he asked.

The innkeeper took in Gawain’s stormy expression and hastened to do as he was bid. “No, no, that will not be necessary. We are here to serve, sir.”

“Good.” Gawain tossed the innkeeper a coin. “Keep it full.”

“Understood, sir.”

Gawain settled lower into his seat. He kept his head down and shoulders hunched forwards. He wasn’t keen to be recognized, however unlikely that was in such a humble establishment. Hell, any more humble and the strongest spirits on offer were likely to be horse piss – and strong spirits were what Gawain had come here for. Alcohol didn’t dull the pain in his leg, necessarily, but when imbibed in sufficiently large quantities, it did make him care about the pain less.

Problem was, the pain in his leg was worse than ever…and so, unfortunately, was the sex with Landry. He didn’t know why, but that special something had completely fled. Maybe they were just losing interest in one another, with even the forbidden novelty of sodomy grown old and stale, or maybe age was having an adverse effect upon Landry’s stamina. Whatever the reason, their nighttime trysts had become frustrating exercises in disappointment, and eventually Gawain had given up inviting Landry into his bed altogether. He told himself he didn’t care that Landry had seemed almost relieved. Landry was a fool; he didn’t matter. So whatever. Gawain had been drinking more and more often of late to compensate.

He took a deep pull on his cup; the alcohol burned a path down his throat and settled heavily in his stomach. He took another pull. Empty. He slammed his cup down onto the table, hard enough to make it jump, and the innkeeper bustled forwards to refill it. Another pull. It was starting to go to his head, his dark thoughts blurring into a pleasant white haze, his awful mortal body with its infernal aches and pains seeming to float and fall away –

The scraping of a chair startled him back into himself. Someone had joined him at his table. Gawain growled. He drank alone; he didn’t want company. “Table’s taken. Bugger off – ”

“Good evening, Sir Gawain.”

“Who’re you? How’d ya know…?” He was too drunk; he couldn’t quite form the requisite words. He peered blearily above the rim of his cup at his unwelcome drinking companion. It was a young face with an olive complexion. Dark hair and eyes. The eyes were painted. Women did that sometimes to make their eyes look larger and more alluring, but he’d never seen that on a man before. How strange.

“It’s Nicolas, Sir Gawain,” said his unwelcome table companion with the painted eyes. The name sounded familiar, but…ugh, he couldn’t think clearly… “Perhaps you don’t remember. You came to call on my mother recently, but I informed you she had already passed.”

Though he’d said ‘umm’ instead of mother, he didn’t look as drunk as Gawain and so was unlikely to be slurring his words. Yet Gawain was certain he actually meant to say mother…

Oh. Right. Of course. Yes, Gawain remembered. This was one of his brother Templar’s by-blows. “What’re you doing here?” he mumbled.

“Funny, I could ask you the same thing,” said Nicolas.

“What’m I doing here? Should be obvious.” And to underscore the point, Gawain emptied his cup. He slammed the cup down hard on the table to summon the innkeeper.

“Yes, it is.” Nicolas hesitated, mouth open, like he wanted to say more, but then the innkeeper arrived, pitcher in hand, and Nicolas’ mouth shut with an almost audible click.

The innkeeper refilled Gawain’s cup. When he noticed Nicolas at Gawain’s table, though, he frowned and hissed, “You! We don’t want your kind here. Leave – or you will be made to leave, and I promise you won’t enjoy it.”

Gawain was confused. “His kind? Saracen?”

The innkeeper laughed meanly, grabbed Nicolas by the collar, and hauled him to his feet. “Out!” barked the innkeeper.

Nicolas didn’t put up a fight. He made his own way out of the inn, and Gawain was left alone once more to drown himself in strong spirits.

*

Gawain didn’t make it back to his cell in the Temple that night. He didn’t, in fact, make it any further than the street in front of the inn. His bad leg felt no better, and as it was under the influence of too much alcohol, his good leg was also refusing to cooperate with him. Long story short? He couldn’t walk. He rested his hand on the side of a building and concentrated on not crumpling to the ground.

At some point, it seemed that there was somebody beside him, offering him assistance to some further destination. Beyond that, Gawain couldn’t for the life of him recall.

*

When he awoke, his head was pounding, and he was in unfamiliar surroundings. A commoner’s cottage. He lurched upright and was practically knocked back down again by a tidal wave of nausea.

“That amount of drinking is exceedingly ill-advised.”

“I don’t need anyone telling me what to do,” said Gawain rudely, squinting into the daylight, trying to ascertain the identity of the speaker.

“You don’t say.”

The speaker handed Gawain a wooden cup. He sniffed it warily. It contained sour milk thinned with water. He took a sip, coughed a little at the bracing acidity, and took another. He drained the cup. His stomach began to settle, now that it wasn’t quite so empty.

“You’re Nicolas,” said Gawain at last.

“Yes.”

Memory of the prior evening stuck its head above the parapet. “That innkeeper doesn’t like you.”

“No, he does not.” Nicolas didn’t seem particularly bothered by that.

“Why not?”

Nicolas shrugged tiredly. He had dark smudges around his eyes that at first Gawain assumed were down to exhaustion. But then he realized that the smudges were the leftover remnants of the paint he’d had on last night. “I suppose he thinks I deserve to be lonely, that loneliness is my lot in life,” he said with a surprising amount of hurt in his voice. “Misery loves company, and the innkeeper is miserable, so he prefers lonely men.” Nicolas paused. “Lonely men like you, Sir Gawain.”

“I’m not lone – ” he began reflexively.

Gawain stopped, unpleasant realization dawning. He was a holy knight, he’d been about to say, surrounded during nearly all of his waking hours by his brother Templars, by the many other people he was meant to protect and serve.

And yet. _Yet_.

Ah, but to say that he wasn’t lonely would be a lie.

Nicolas stepped forward and retrieved the empty cup. He put it aside and leaned in close, one knee resting on the bed alongside Gawain’s hip. He had such big, dark eyes – he didn’t need to use the paint to emphasize them. He placed the palm of his hand on Gawain’s chest, directly over his fast-beating heart. “I could help you to stave off your loneliness,” he murmured.

Gawain had recoiled and pushed Nicolas back before he was even consciously aware of having done so. He lurched to his feet and assumed a defensive posture. A torrent of words in other languages for what Nicolas was – for what he must be – reverberated in Gawain’s head. A lover of men. An obscenity. An offense against God. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say any of the words aloud, though, and he especially couldn’t say the ones he knew in Nicolas’s mother tongue. They were too ugly; they made Gawain feel ugly. And as for Nicolas…Nicolas didn’t deserve to hear them from Gawain’s mouth. Especially not after he’d brought Gawain into his home for the express purpose of nursing him to health.

“I…I should go,” said Gawain at last, wincing. His leg was throbbing. “You may expect me again when next I am delivering provisions.”

Nicolas nodded and said nothing. He did not stop Gawain from leaving.

*

Gawain did not, as he had expected, see Nicolas when next he was delivering provisions because he was no longer delivering provisions. Someone else had assumed the responsibility. Well, that was what Gawain assumed. To be honest, though, he didn’t actually know for certain.

The situation inside the Paris Temple had changed dramatically. Godfrey was murdered under suspicious circumstances, and Landry du Lauzon had been elevated to Temple Master in Godfrey’s place. And but of course, one of Landry’s first acts as Temple Master had been to reassign Gawain to teaching the Initiates. His crippled leg, Landry had informed him, made him unfit for active duty. It was, as far as Gawain was concerned, a demotion. Not to mention a grievous insult. The insult was enough to make Gawain want to die…except that dying would be tantamount to surrender, and Gawain’s heart was much too bitter and resentful to surrender.

No. He’d already decided: He would _never_ surrender. He was _still_ the best swordsman in the Order. Gawain knew this to be true, even if his brother Templars were inclined to believe otherwise. He’d put up with it for a time, and in the end, he knew he’d be vindicated.

In the meantime, though, the pain in his leg had become absolutely excruciating. His drinking increased in both quantity and frequency to compensate. The weightless buzz of mild drunkenness, the black oblivion of extreme drunkenness – neither served to distract Gawain from the pain anymore. Everything made him so angry – everything made him want to hurt something like he himself was hurting –

A voice called out, and it cut through the dark soup of Gawain’s thoughts. “Sir Gawain, my friend! May I join you at your table?”

He looked up. It was early in the evening, and he had not yet succeeded in drowning himself in strong spirits. His memory was clear; the voice calling out to him belonged to Nicolas. Nicolas, whose painted eyes were alight, whose mouth was smiling. Gawain had resolved not return to this inn since that night, deciding it would be better to avoid the young man altogether. But amidst the pain, the growing pile of his other problems with his brother Templars and the Order – he’d completely forgotten his resolution.

“What a pleasant surprise! I wondered where you’d gone. Forgive me, but I was worried about you. I – _gluuurrrggg_ – ”

“Get. Out.” The innkeeper had come up from behind Nicolas and grabbed him by the collar. The tunic was pulled tight around Nicolas’ throat, and his fingers were scrabbling helplessly at the lacings, trying but failing to free himself; he was gasping for air –

Gawain’s fist connected with the innkeeper’s jaw. The innkeeper released Nicolas and stumbled backwards, tripping over a chair and falling to the ground.

The innkeeper spat blood and broken teeth. “Why…! Why, you…!” he sputtered.

The rest of the inn’s patrons were watching the scene nervously. If he attempted a second blow, he was sure to kick off a brawl. Gawain rubbed his knuckles absentmindedly; they were bleeding – he must have split the skin whilst dislodging the innkeeper’s teeth. That punch had been cathartic, and the pain in his hand was a good pain, a satisfying pain, a righteous pain. He’d like nothing better than to start a knockout fight, throw himself into the whirlwind of a dozen or more bodies intent upon uncontrolled violence –

“Sir Gawain!” said Nicolas urgently, tugging on Gawain’s arm.

But no. He shouldn’t do that, not with a noncombatant like Nicolas present. He took a deep breath and stepped back. Nicolas put an arm around his waist, holding him steady as he must have done that night he’d found Gawain drunk. He was helping support Gawain, but he was also preventing him from attacking again. And his proximity to Gawain effectively put him under Gawain’s protection.

“Don’t worry,” growled Gawain to the innkeeper. “We’re leaving.”

Nicolas’ home was only a short, five-minute walk from the inn. Once inside, Nicolas sat Gawain down in one of the home’s two straight backed chairs, planted himself in the second, and immediately busied himself with Gawain’s hand, cleaning it first and then binding it in a strip of cloth. He seemed intent upon his labors, but to Gawain it hardly mattered. He’d suffered and survived far worse injuries.

Moreover, his most pressing thoughts were focused elsewhere. “Why did you return to that inn, Nicolas?” he asked. “You know you weren’t welcome. That innkeeper would have hurt you and not given it a second thought.”

Nicolas looked away. He seemed unable to meet Gawain’s eyes.

“Nicolas?” he prompted. “You are my brother Templar’s son, and as a Knight of the Order I am meant to take care of you, to protect you from harm. This I cannot do if you are wont to make such foolhardy choices.”

“The pot calls the kettle black…” muttered Nicolas to his toes.

“What was that?” Gawain’s ire rose automatically at the implications.

“Nothing.”

Gawain sighed. Violence provided transitory distraction at best, and when it was finished it left only hollowness in its wake. Gawain’s leg pained him as badly as it ever had, and now he had a new injury to his dominant hand to add to his woes as well. He did not look forward to explaining the bandages to Landry. “You should try to stick to places where you’ll be welcome, at least,” he said, trying to moderate his tone.

Nicolas lifted his head to look Gawain full in the face; his expression was fierce. He rose from his seat and began to pace. The cottage was small; it took only four or five steps to cross in each direction. “And what if I’m not welcome anywhere?” he asked he asked as he strode back and forth. “That innkeeper – he thinks I sell myself to other men, you know. He thought my mother did, too. How else to explain why we always had a roof over our heads and enough to eat? He’s wrong, of course. He was always wrong about us. But proclaiming myself a Templar’s heathen bastard would be no better! Do you really think I’d win acceptance that way?! So tell me what I am supposed to do, Sir Gawain! How do I make myself welcome?”

Gawain winced, recoiling from the heat of Nicolas’ anger. Put in this light, he had nothing to say in response. No justifiable admonition, no real wisdom. “I…I – ”

“I went into the inn because I saw you through the door as I was passing on the street,” continued Nicolas undeterred. He came to a halt to stand directly in front of Gawain. His face was contorted with emotion, and his dark eyes shimmered like he was about to cry. “I went into the inn where I knew I was not welcome because I was wondering how you were doing. I was concerned. I wanted to see you again. Is that wrong of me?!”

“No, it isn’t wrong of you.” Gawain stood and accepted the pain that surged through his leg as he put weight on it anew. He would not be so selfish as to allow his own suffering to show. He grasped Nicolas’ shoulders and said, “You are a good man, Nicolas, and you deserve kindness, not cruelty. I am…” Gawain hesitated; this confession was more difficult than he had anticipated. “I am…imperfect before God, and I am not always the good man I ought to be. I apologize for my actions and hope you will see fit to – ”

Nicolas closed the remaining distance between them and kissed him.

It wasn’t a fraternal kiss, nor was it mannered. It was aggressive and desperate and needy, and Gawain was reciprocating it with equal ardor before he was even consciously aware of doing it. They clung to each other like they were afraid of being pulled apart, and they devoured each other’s mouths like they were starving. And when Gawain stumbled, his leg giving way as he was overcome by the intensity of it all, Nicolas helped him back down into the chair.

They were both panting for air, having forgotten in the passion of their kisses to breathe. Nicolas loomed over Gawain, an unspoken question in his hesitance. Gawain nodded once, and Nicolas dropped to the floor and situated himself between Gawain’s legs.

Nicolas was skilled; he’d clearly had experience. More than that, he obviously loved what he was doing, and he was reverent in his treatment. He cupped the sac and fondled the balls held loosely within. He grasped the shaft and rubbed his cheek against the underside as it began to rise. He licked at the loose skin at the tip and the firm flesh beneath. He probed the sensitive hole with his tongue until it wept, and when Gawain gasped, he suckled the tears away. He took the erect prick into his mouth, took it deep, and he pleasured Gawain with his lips and tongue and throat until Gawain could hold back no longer. When he spilt his seed, Nicolas swallowed it.

He continued gently licking Gawain’s prick as it shrank, and Gawain groaned like he’d been stabbed in the gut. He’d never come so intensely before…

And his leg had never hurt worse. And yet, when Nicolas rose and kissed him once more, the taste of himself on those sweetly ardent lips…

He almost thought he could live with the pain.

Nicolas would not allow him to reciprocate. “When next we meet,” he said and made Gawain agree. He made Gawain repeat his words like they were a promise.

*

Templar Knights were known to break their vows of celibacy. This was just a sad fact of frail, mortal life, and if the truth be told, most of the time their transgressions were of little adverse consequence to the Order.

But when Landry du Lauzon did it, it broke them. Somehow, that just figured.

And when there was a chance for Gawain to be healed, for his infernal pain to be banished once and for all, Landry du Lauzon refused him. Somehow, that just figured, too.

The King of France seized the Paris Temple. All of the people living in the shadows of its walls, under the Knights’ protection, were driven forth and scattered. Gawain did not know where they went, and he told himself he didn’t care. He wasn’t his brothers’ keeper anymore because he wasn’t a Templar anymore.

He’d found other ways to assuage his pain. Witchcraft and revenge.

In the rare instances those fell short of what he needed, he could fight. Most nights, the fights were organized, and there were prizes. Worse come to worst, when the nights were longest and the pain greatest, he could always patronize an inn, swing a fist at a nearby jaw, and start a brawl. Those worked just as well.

The inn was new to Gawain, but it didn’t matter. He ordered a drink. One drink first, one drink only, to prime him for the fight.

He didn’t feel the arm around his waist until it was nearly too late. Support and restraint.

“We’re leaving,” said Nicolas.

They returned to Nicolas’ old cottage by the Paris Temple. It’d been ransacked in his absence, but he’d had little of value to steal, and anyway, it was a roof over their heads. Nicolas didn’t ask where he’d been or what he’d been doing, and Gawain didn’t volunteer that information.

“They’re gone, aren’t they?” asked Nicolas instead. His gaze wandered off in the direction of the Paris Temple. He looked sad.

Gawain knew he meant the Order. “Nearly,” he said, “but not entirely. Some are in hiding, I’m sure. There are always places to hide…”

He blinked. Oh. _Oh._ That was where they were hiding. Of course. Ha, he should have known!

“Will you help them?” asked Nicolas.

Gawain realized he couldn’t say no. This pain would hound him till the end of his days, but that didn’t mean there weren’t also other things to feel. _Good_ things. Maybe this was his chance to seek forgiveness. He reached out and touched his thumb to Nicolas’ lips. Nicolas obligingly kissed the hand he’d once wrapped in bandages.

They made their plans. If Gawain survived, they would meet three days’ journey outside Paris.

“You will survive, Sir Gawain,” said Nicolas, “and when next we meet, it will be as Heaven on Earth.”


End file.
